


Would You Do Me the Honor

by Kiyuomi



Series: JJBek Week 2017 [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Fluff, Gay, JJBekWeek 2017, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, this is so gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11893065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyuomi/pseuds/Kiyuomi
Summary: There’s easier ways to do this.Ask beforehand, somewhere nice and private. Maybe in a good café, familiar to the two of you. Hell, if you’re living together, there’s no reason not to crack the issue there. Add in the fact that you’re both competitive skaters, and the locker room may not be the most romantic place to ask but it’s certainly one of the most private.Basically, there’s a lot of options for proposal.It’s a horrible idea to propose in a room full of people in masks.





	Would You Do Me the Honor

                There’s easier ways to do this.

                Ask beforehand, somewhere nice and private. Maybe in a good café, familiar to the two of you. Hell, if you’re living together, there’s no reason not to crack the issue there. Add in the fact that you’re both competitive skaters, and the locker room may not be the most romantic place to ask but it’s certainly one of the most private.

                Basically, there’s a lot of options for proposal.

                Otabek sighs, scratching at his chin. His hair is gelled back, slick, and anyone with eyes would recognize him despite the hot pink mask marring his face. The jacket he’s wearing is a little too tight for his shoulders, straining, but Yuri told him it looked good. He pulls at his collar, pressing it flat and then popping it up again. The box feels chunky, heavy in his pocket.

                Three diamonds set into white gold.

                The hall is crowded; stuffed from wall to wall. There’s a rainbow of colors—suits and dresses, press reporter badges and white tables. A woman ghosts by with a long red gown, her hair up in braids. It’s easy enough to press to the drinks table, glancing over camera crews and two gentlemen talking up a young lady. They’re in matching red masks, green feathers encrusting twin purple gems, and Otabek shifts his gaze over.

                Yuuri and Victor are dancing. Yuuri is obvious in his powder blue tie regardless of his mask, a simple black domino. Victor adorns an outlandish green monstrosity and Otabek chuckles under his skin, recalling what Yuri had called it. His friend had gone for a fuzzy cheetah print on himself. As Otabek tip toes around a few more attendees, his eyes wander over their faces. Lots of black, lots of feathers. He does have a double take at one mask that’s a shade too light, with cascading curling ribbons down to the shoulder. Then he realizes the wearer is in a purple dress, and he looks away.

                The person Otabek is looking for has a sage green mask, sequined and detailed with a line of gold trim. There’s a single rosette pinned to the top right of the mask, bright pink and stolen from Otabek’s own mask. In the crowd of the hall, it’s near impossible to sight that hot pink hint.

                At the very least, Otabek’s going to try.

                He finds Yuri before he finds the rosette. The Russian Punk is downing a chute of champagne, picking them off the end of the table before catching Otabek’s eye. Yuri smirks, gulping down another glass just to see Otabek grimace. Yuri knows very well how Otabek feels about his irresponsible drinking.

                At least he can handle his liquor.

                “Have you seen him?” Yuri hands him a chute before his question finishes. That’s all that needs to be said, but Yuri is flicking his tongue over his teeth. He never stays quiet for long if he has something milling around.

                “I saw him earlier,” Otabek chokes on the champagne, sputtering half its contents back into the glass. A woman passing by holding a bright yellow clutch flinches at him, wrinkling her lips in disgust as she sets back the champagne she was about to pick up. Yuri just laughs, purely amused as Otabek hastily snatches a napkin to dab at his face. There’s a dot on his collar that doesn’t come off. “He’s wearing a pink tie.”

                “Of course,” Otabek groans. He knows that tie. On their six-month anniversary, they went shopping during their date, and had stopped by a tie store. After spending a good hour browsing by designs and patterns, Otabek had been certain that the pink tie was the one his lover had been staring and musing about the entire visit.

                A dinner later, he was rewarded with the news that the right tie was one over.

                “It’s a wonderful tie.” Otabek considers throwing Yuri into the punch bowl. His friend is many things—a sympathetic listener is not one of them.

                Still, the drink bar is a good vantage point to scan the room. There are people who have dressed themselves to match their mask—or is it the other way around? Full face masks, decorated with glitter and paint, and chunky heads that seem more comical than romantic. Domino masks seem the most common, despite a good chunk of the women wearing it not wearing black. The amount of men wearing black is significantly larger, and Otabek strains to pick out the detail.

                He knows the suit, probably. A textured black two-piece suit over an embroidered mesh vest. Otabek thought it strange, but apparently that was “fashion” nowadays.

                He can see Chris from here, wearing a yellow mask covered in fringe that drops well below his chest. Despite the gaudy mask, his suit is well-fitted. There’s a man in a grey suit speaking to him in a simple mask, also yellow. He ducks down to plant a kiss on Chris’ cheek, and the blonde skater smiles.

                Otabek smiles too, hiding it behind another sip of champagne.

                Then there is a flash of pink from the corner of his eye and he freezes. Yuri notices, jerking as Otabek tries not to slam the glass onto the table. He coughs, adjusts his tie, and steadies himself. Nods to Yuri who mouths “crazy” to him, and walks off. Otabek will take that as encouragement.

                He makes a circle around a group of men in navy tuxedoes. Ducks past a gaggle of women in shiny gold masks, all the same. A reporter tries to catch a word with him and he stills, but the weight of a box in his pocket spurs him to move on. A woman with curly blonde hair has a green mask just too light, and Otabek pauses long enough to look for a trace of pink. Then he sees it; hot pink at the edge of a gold trim on sage green.

                Otabek is marching up to him before they notice, turning around with a wide grin that’s not right.

                “Isabella?” It is her, with her hair in one large braided bun. She’s grown it out since he’s last seen her; certainly longer than when she had cut it all off a week after announcing, well. Isabella adjusts the mask, fitting remarkably well with her dress—red with gold butterfly embroidery. She looks like Christmas. As she pulls her hand back down, Otabek can’t help but trace the empty ring finger of her hand. She catches him looking and he bites his lip.

                “Otabek,” she responds, smoothing out her dress. There’s a gold chain that hangs low on her neck. “You found me.” She sounds pleased and Otabek nods.

                “I did. Do you know,” it’s still hard around her for him. Everyone else can treat Isabella well, but they’re not dating her ex-fiance. Even when she had reached out to him a month later, a simple “Take care of him, okay?” message before they had gotten officially together, he had taken a solid two weeks before replying. But she’s patient, bringing up one hand to smooth out a crease in his tie. “where he is?”

                “Third floor balcony,” Isabella admits without much hassle, chuckling at Otabek when he jerks. “Of course I was going to tell you. It was a struggle not to march up to you first!” Ah. Otabek flushes, scratching the back of his neck. So she had been leaving hints.

                Of course she’d have the mask. Who else to lead Otabek the right way?

                “Okay, thank you,” Otabek manages to say before adjusting his sleeves, rolling his shoulders. He hopes it’s not too late, the balcony not empty. Just as he turns away, Isabella touches his elbow.

                “May I see it?” _It_ feels heavy in his pocket, then his hands as he pulls it out. The lid pops open with ease, and Isabella gasps. She admires it a moment, smiling softening as she glances at Otabek. What use is a mask when she can see right through it? “He’ll love it.”

                Otabek nods, swallowing down a lump in his throat. Isabella straightens her back and waves when he does turn this time, nearly stepping on someone’s foot in his haste. The hall leads to twin spiral staircases that lead to the second and third floor. A few people climb downwards from the staircase, clothes messy, and Otabek can imagine what they’ve done. He dodges the hand of someone deep in conversation, scowling as he smooths out his hair again.

                The third floor is remarkably empty compared to the first. It’s immensely more comforting to the crowded hall and Otabek sighs, letting the tension roll out. Straightens his tie one last time, and pats the box in his pocket. Grimaces, stretches his mouth. Enters the balcony.

                There’s a few people here and there, mostly talking in hushed voices. A woman taps her heel against the ground to the sound of the symphony outside. There’s a few smokers here; the cigar scent hangs heavy and Otabek turns away. There’s a fountain down below, one with two mermaids reaching up and spewing a cloud of steam. Otabek walks in that direction, certain.

                There’s a jacquard black jacket and pants suit that hang over the balcony. A messy undercut, longer in the off-season, cut wildly around his ear. Otabek takes a few fast steps closer, feet tapping out, and the man turns around.

                He’s wearing a blue mask, floral printed and a small pink flower at the corner. It covers his entire face this time, not just his eyes, but Otabek already knows the smile that’s glistening behind the mask. The man’s shoulders drop, his hands rise, and Otabek just knows.

                He’s watched a lot of romance movies, but dropping to one knee is still odd. Someone gasps behind him and he bites his lip but there’s nowhere for him to turn but the blue mask ahead, and that small pink flower. He sees that horribly gaudy tie and laughter wants to bubble up at it.

                Otabek is in love with this man.

                “I prepared a speech,” he admits, but there’s a few people starting to look now and he’s sweating, shirt sticking to him uncomfortably. “But I don’t actually have it.” There’s a huff behind the mask and Otabek nods. He knows—Yuri had taken one look at the long paper and ripped it. “So, um.”

                Wow. Now that he’s actually doing this, it’s hard to imagine Yuuri Katsuki ever managing to ask Victor Nikiforov of all people for his hand. But he’s already here, and well aware of a flash of someone’s cellphone, so he fumbles with his right pocket. Misses the box the first time, and then grasps it the second. Bites his lip and brings it out.

                It’s easier to say this with his eyes down. Otabek’s been around the world once, twice, several times actually. Skated in front of those people. Skated for people he’s never known, will never meet. Performed for those fans.

                There is nothing like the anxiousness gripping him now, as he unloads the ring. Counts the diamonds, one, two, three. Swallows the growing wetness in his throat, and forces those words out.

                “Не могу жить без тебя.” Again, because his hands are trembling now, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to take a no. “I cannot live without you. I cannot imagine waking up without you by my side now. I cannot see a world where you are not by my side. I just,” someone is recording, he’s certain, but Otabek can’t bring himself to care, “cannot live a life without you anymore. I am in love with you, Jean-Jacques Leroy. I am in love with your smiling face when I wake up in the morning. I adore the feeling of your calloused hands in mine. I like it when,” a lick of lips, and the words don’t stop, “you laugh when I kiss your hand. I think your tattoos are silly,” stupidly silly but still, “I love them anyway.”

                “Jean-Jacques, I adore you. Please,” never leave his side, never hole away his feelings, never lock Otabek out when he shouldn’t. Please stay there, laughing at his blunders, Otabek laughing too. Please stay bright, shining, a warm comfort by his side. Please, “would you do me the honor, of marrying me.”

                When Otabek looks up, he’s expecting blue paint and pink flowers.

                The mask is gone, laid down on the floor. Instead, Otabek can see JJ’s smile, soft and crumbling under the moonlit sky. He can see the prickling of tears, feels the rush of worry at them, even as JJ lets them overflow. He can see the pink that brushes along JJ’s face, from his jaw up to his ears, and then his lips spreading from cheek to cheek. JJ bends down until he’s at the same level of Otabek.

                “You’re supposed to put the ring on my finger,” he whispers. There is mirth in there, swirling with something nostalgic. A warmth in his tone and his eyes crinkle when he brings one hand to drag a tear back. He brings his hands forward, both of them. “You pick.”

                Perhaps it’s pettiness. Perhaps it’s jealousy. But Otabek looks between the two windblown hands, and holds the right one. Slips out the ring, touches the diamonds, one, two, three, and brings it up. His hand is trembling—or is that JJ? The ring slips on well enough despite the quivers, and he brings it down to base. Past the first knuckle, then at the second.

                “Wait,” Otabek bites out, glancing at the ring then at JJ, “I thought you only put the ring on if they say yes.” JJ blinks at him a moment, blank, and then he’s laughing, flustered and joyous and vivid all at once, and Otabek knows, yes, that he loves his man.

                “Yes, Otabek,” and there’s cheers in the background, people suddenly closed around them in a circle, and Otabek startles. In his fright, the ring pushes home, hits the base and there are flashes of cameras then. JJ gives him barely a moment to breathe before Otabek’s being hoisted up, onto his unsteady feet and just staring at his boyfriend—no, _lover_ , and then JJ’s lips are on his and there’s more cheering.

                And Otabek? He loves this, even if he’s less fond of the people crowding into them. Because that’s JJ’s hand on his waist, that’s JJ’s hand on his shoulder, that’s JJ, pure Jean-Jacques Leroy, right up against him. Let’s his hand wander from JJ’s neck to his shoulder down, brushing the jacquard fabric of his jacket. Hovers over where he knows that obnoxious tattoo is, huffing a laugh into JJ’s mouth that’s returned with a squeeze on his shoulder. Otabek lets one hand go, taking in JJ’s hand. Smooths his finger over the bumps of the diamonds.

                JJ grins at him when he leans back, lipstick smeared onto his chin. It reminds Otabek of bad take out and late competitions, and he brushes away the stain with his thumb. JJ licks at it, just a little nip, but it’s enough for Otabek to fluster.

                “You knew I was going to propose,” Otabek whispers. JJ laughs at that, free, loose, his head thrown back and Otabek wonders if a heart can expand at a sound. Knows that his is.

                “I did,” JJ grins, menacing, alluring, loving. “Why do you think I switched masks with Isabella?”

                “Devil,” Otabek grumbles. JJ kisses the edge of his lips, soft, and he sighs. Forgets the cameras, forgets the party. Forgets the regret he’s going to face tomorrow, their faces plastered over newspapers. Forgets the merciless teasing he’s going to get.

                “Yours,” JJ whispers and Otabek feels that it’s all worth it, just for this moment. For this one, the one before, and all the ones after. For the mornings he shares with JJ, the afternoon practices. The shower stall wide enough for two. The two hotel beds when they only need one. The VIP tickets to concerts, the free drinks behind the bar. That horribly gaudy tie, and the wonderful dinner that he remembers with it. The next day, where he’ll wake up with a hangover, and JJ will laugh at him. The lunch they’ll share. The music they’ll create together.

                The gold he wants to win, in JJ’s name. The gold JJ wants to win, in his.

                The golden life they share together.

                One, two, three.

                Past, present, future.

**Author's Note:**

> Не могу жить без тебя - I can't live without you  
> Three diamonds in a row mean "past, present, future" and is basically one of the most romantic rings you can have. Otabek did his research.


End file.
